In San Francisco's Chinatown, there stood a very ordinary Sichuan restaurant.
From the greasy brown stains on the signboard to the smoke-marks trailing up the walls, and the dense line of people snaking outside, you could tell right away that this place was what foodies called a "fly restaurant." That's a term used to describe hole-in-the-wall joints with terrible hygiene but incredible food.
Usually, it was packed with Chinese custors. Westerners preferred upscale, well-decorated Chinese eateries and wouldn't even glance at these dingy little dives.
But today, sothing was off.
Amidst the crowd stood a boy who didn't belong, he had jet-black hair, but his pale, porcelain skin gave away the truth: he wasn't Chinese.
That boy was Allen. At the mont, he was doing his best to ignore all the curious stares around him, because damn it, it had been four months. Four whole months!
Four months of suffering under the weird, abominable "delicacies" of the British Empire. So the second he stepped off the train in this city, ho to the largest Chinatown in the world, he made a beeline for the nearest authentic Chinese restaurant.
He'd spent a full hour asking around for the best spot in town, and he would never forget the stunned expressions of the Chinese folks he'd asked, completely baffled by this "foreign" kid speaking fluent Mandarin.
Roughly ten minutes after the person in front of him was seated, Allen finally made it to the front of the line and was led to a tiny table.
A server approached at lightning speed and fired off a question: "What'll it be? Are you ordering from the nu or going with the chef's choice?"
It took the server a second to realize he'd just spoken Mandarin to a foreigner, only for Allen to respond at an equally rapid pace:
"Give shredded potato stir-fry, spicy beef and tripe salad, and braised pork intestines. The rest… surprise ."
The server blinked, stunned, and shuffled off to the kitchen. Allen sat down.
It's worth noting the table was covered in a layer of oil. There was even a visible streak where the staff had clearly wiped it with a halfhearted swipe, classic.
"Chef's choice," as the na suggested, ant you left the ordering to the kitchen. As long as you told them what you couldn't eat, everything else was up to their whim. You never knew what you'd get, it was half al, half gamble.
The single-ordered dishes took a bit longer. The first plate to arrive was stir-fried pig's blood.
It wasn't exactly classic Sichuan cuisine, but hey, this was Arica. You couldn't be too picky.
Pig's blood is notoriously hard to cook, one wrong move and it falls apart, or gets overcooked into sothing tough and rubbery. But clearly, the chef here knew what they were doing. Allen picked up a slice with his chopsticks, tender but intact. And when he bit into it, it was soft, perfectly done, not chewy at all.
Perfect.
When he looked up, he found the waiter staring at him with an expression best described by a : "shocked Pikachu face."
He must've never imagined he'd see a foreign kid handle chopsticks so well in his life...
Modi thought he was the unluckiest vampire alive.
Full and satisfied, though sadly, without any actual wine, Allen stepped out of the restaurant and hailed a cab. Not exactly difficult in the good ol' USA, a country practically built around cars.
According to that now-deceased, naless vampire (well, Allen hadn't actually asked for his na), there was a major wizarding bank not far from the port city where Allen landed. Naturally, it was still run by goblins. Naturally, it was still called Gringotts.
Ah yes, Gringotts, the magical world's ultimate bank franchise.
Without that vampire's tip-off, Allen doubted he would've ever found Arica's version of Diagon Alley. Here, it went by a different na, Balance Street.
So where exactly was the entrance to Balance Street?
Heh. Through a shady nightclub lit with red lights.
Of course, other than that glowing red lamp out front, none of the club's facilities were in use. The place was flooded with strong, permanent Muggle-repelling charms, specifically targeted ones, often nicknad "No-Maj banishers." Even the most curious explorers wouldn't give this dump a second glance. (Yes, "explorers", here aning people who went out looking for, um, oversized 'gear.')
Allen stepped through the front entrance and wandered past a row of doorways, each labeled with a little sign above it. He chose one that showed "in service."
The room was plain. A single table, a beat-up chair, a bed, and a nightstand.
Allen sighed, lay down on the bed, and reached for the lamp above the nightstand.
Creak.
The bed shifted beneath him, and Allen felt the distinct drop of gravity leaving him, when the weightlessness passed, he found himself lying on a different bed entirely.
He pushed open the door.
Noise instantly poured in from all directions, he had arrived at balance Street.
Arica's magical market looked nothing like Diagon Alley.
Here, you could find all sorts of magical goods, many of them completely unrelated to magic books or traditional wizardry.
The official na for Arica's wizarding governnt was the Magical Congress of the United States, or MACUSA. Its structure was similar to Britain's old Wizarding Council, which itself had evolved into the Ministry of Magic.
Representatives from across North Arica were elected to Congress, where they passed legislation to protect and regulate the magical population.
However, thanks to Arica's complex demographics, its magical community was equally diverse. Let's face it, pure-blood wizards alone couldn't sustain an entire society. The varied population led to a wild range of magical items and products.
The first thing that caught Allen's eye?
A flying carpet store.
"Exquisite flying carpets, hand-woven in Egypt. Two thousand years of craftsmanship. Complete range of models available."
Those words were woven into a massive flying carpet in front of the shop, which was currently trying to roll itself around a pole and pose as a vertical support beam to blend in.
Next to it was clearly a rival shop.
The flying carpet had blocked half the neighbor's signage, but Allen could still see the sparkling broomstick in their display window clear as day.
Not that Allen had ti to browse just yet. First, he had to get his priorities straight: convert his U.S. dollars into Galleons.
He just hoped Gringotts handled international transactions...
Turns out, they did.
Unfortunately, Allen couldn't use his real identity. He had to exchange only a portion of his money, leaving the rest stashed inside a small pouch enchanted with a space-folding spell, a pouch he'd thick-skinnedly borrowed from a senior schoolmate.
The pouch could only hold things for half a day, and the spell that powered it was incredibly complicated.
It wasn't that Gringotts wouldn't let him exchange more, it was that Allen didn't dare.
Think about it. A supposedly eleven-year-old kid, walking alone down the street with a fortune in gold? Safe? Yeah, no.
Even if he had the strength to protect himself, it would be a major hassle.
So what next?
Obviously, ti for so happy shopping!
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